Wearing the StarSpangled Pants with Mr Y
by Elle-Vee16
Summary: Lysandre, Erik - now called Mr Y - and Raoul are back and in Coney Island, son Benedict Cumberbatch Jr in tow. How will the plot of this god-awful musical be changed with our spit-fiery protagonist taking centre-stage instead of Christine Daae? Rated T for language
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: So this thing is back, god knows why. I actually watched LND, and since I know the legit plot, I decided to make this a little more legit. However, since some parts of it I know from the OLC (from listening to the music before seeing the show), there are still a few things that were cut out of the original show. For instance: Heaven By The Sea is included and Fleck, Squelch, and Gangle have their original costumes. And I also changed a name. Because of **_**reasons.**_

* * *

Shit started to go down when the letter arrived.

It was not, as Lysandre had hoped, a Pottermore welcome letter, but a note that was apparently from a Mr Oscar Hammerstein. He had apparently heard about her extraordinary fame in Europe, which didn't surprise Lysandre in the least—her voice was pretty rad, and over the years she had become a prima-frickin'-donna, makin' ze monay and all that jazz.

She read through the letter quickly, deciding right away that they would take up his offer of seventy-five billion dollars if she were to come and sing when he opened a new Opera house in New York City. Nodding absently at the paper in her hand, she turned to her husband of ten years, Raoul de Chagny, who was snoozing on the table using a keg as a pillow. Wrinkling her nose at him, she stood and smacked him on the back of the head.

"Hey Haymitch, wake up," she said. Raoul grunted and peered at her through one eye.

"Whut."

"We got a letter."

"What?"

Lysandre snorted. "Do you want me to fucking sing it out to you?" She held the letter in front of Raoul's face and sang the well-loved Blue's Clues Song Of Our Childhoods, "We just gotta let-ter, we just gotta let-ter, we just gotta let-ter, WONDER WHO IT'S FROM?"

Raoul was quiet for a moment. Then, "Well, who's it from?"

"Oscar Mothafuckin' Hammerstein. Yeah."

"Will there be hot dogs?"

"God, I hope not," said Lysandre with a shudder.

"Yeah, cos you know those are made out of pig dick, right?" Lysandre nodded, and then took one of Raoul's bottles of Jack.

"Bee-ar-bee, gonna go brush my teeth with this," she drawled, heading upstairs. She was not, in fact, going to brush her teeth with a bottle of Jack Daniel's, because she reserved that kind of thing for when she woke up in the morning feeling like P. Diddy. Instead, she crossed the hall into the bedroom of her ten-year-old son, who was quietly playing the lute. Oh yeah, her kid was one of those musically-talented kiddos. You might wanna pay attention to that.

"Benedict Cumberbatch Jr, dear, I've got news for you," she crooned.

The boy looked curiously at her. "But Mama, I thought Papa said I was called Gustave?"

"Yeah, well, that's a stupid name. You're Benedict Cumberbatch Jr, and that's that. Anyway, pack up your shit. We're going to New York."

She left Gustave/Benedict Cumberbatch Jr to his music, and went into her room to get her shit together. She pulled out her trunk and tossed in some clothes and toiletries, and of course her handy-dandy parasol, to use as a weapon if needed. Returning to the kitchen, she saw that Raoul had begun his daily activity of yelling at his Smirnoff bottles. Lysandre frowned. Maybe she could toss him off the ship and blame Wrackspurts…

Meanwhile, in New York, the douchebag known as Mr. Y; known to Lysandre as Erik, and known to Raoul as the Skidmark on the Underpants of France, was twisting his hypothetical mustache in cunning delight. It was, of course, he who had sent Lysandre the invitation to New York, and how, after ten years of being apart from her, he would finally get her back! He was still cross with himself for falling for her little "I'm-a-lesbian" charade a decade ago, and damn it, he wasn't gonna get over it no matter what his therapist said.

Somehow, someway, he would hear her sing once more!

* * *

**A/N: Kinda short as fuq, but you get the idea. Sort of a prologue-y exposition-y…thing.**


	2. Chapter 2

Everything sucked. The embarking on the ship sucked. The voyage sucked. The I'm-On-A-Boat-Sex sucked. The disembarking sucked. So, basically, Lysandre was already in a pretty shitty mood when they arrived in America.

Then the Americans came.

They swarmed like phangirls around Ramin Karimloo and Hadley Fraser. Only it was worse, because Lysandre was kind of the 19th Century female equivalent of Ramin Karimloo and Hadley Fraser. And these people _did not shut up_! They were obsessed with pointing out everything they saw, and were more obvious than Legolas from Lord of the Rings.

"The sights!"

"The sounds!"

"The lights!"

"The smells!"

"The Wonder Wheels!"

"The carousels!"

"The gardens and arcades!"

"The marble colonnades!"

"Everyone shut the motherfucking shit up!" Lysandre screeched. Everyone stopped and stared at her. "For the love of bacon, you all are the reason why I left this country in the first place!" Grumbling, she took Benedict Cumberbatch Jr's hand and marched down the gangplank. "This hotel Hammerstein's getting for us had better be some 5-star Marriott shit." She, Raoul, and Benedict Cumberbatch Jr made their way through the crowd of Americans and promptly ran into three goons who looked like a few normal people who had a bad case of Lady Gaga on the brain.

"Miss Fleck," said the female, who was wearing feathers.

"THE MIGHTY SQUELCH," one of the men practically roared. His face was covered in tattoos.

"And Doctor Gangle," said the third man, who had a golden-ish chin and a top hat to rival Abraham Lincoln's.

"At your service!" The three chimed in together.

Lysandre stared at them for a moment. "That's it. I'm going back to the ship," she said, turning around. Raoul took a swig from a beer bottle and grabbed her arm.

"Ohhhh no ya don't, Lyssie," he said.

"Do come, the hotel is 5-star Marriott shit!" Fleck exclaimed. This caused Lysandre to reconsider. When she saw the horseless carriage, though, she freaked the fuck out.

"Whoa," she said. "Thestrals? We're riding to the hotel in a Thestral-pulled carriage? Get the fuck out!" Raoul quickly stepped in and clamped a hand over her mouth.

"Forgive her!" Raoul said. "She doesn't talk sense sometimes!"

The small family was taken into the 5-star Marriott shit hotel, and it was all very much to Lysandre's liking. It even had two master bedrooms so she wouldn't have to deal with Raoul at night. So, with her in one bedroom, and Benedict Cumberbatch Jr in the other, Raoul was welcome to the pullout couch. Benedict Cumberbatch Jr was sitting on the floor by his father, who was sucking down shots like they were going out of style. As the boy serenely strummed his zither, he looked up at Raoul.

"Father, come and play with me!" Benedict Cumberbatch Jr said. Raoul flipped him the bird. Lysandre flipped him the bird in turn.

"I'm out. Gonna go get some more brewskis." Raoul stood, swaying slightly, and shuffled out of the room.

"Mama, why is Papa such a prick?" Benedict Cumberbatch Jr asked.

"I dunno. Here, here's a picture of your namesake, Benedict Cumberbatch Sr," Lysandre said, pulling a small portrait of said man from her cleavage and handing it to her son. "Look at it with your heart, and not with your eyes. Well…look at it with your eyes too, because that's an awfully pretty picture." Benedict Cumberbatch Jr looked at the picture and smiled.

"I wish he was my father," he sighed.

"I'm sure you do," Lysandre muttered. "Alright, you. Bedtime. It's late and we got shit to do tomorrow. I wanna go to the M&M store in Times Square."

"But mama, there's no such place!" Benedict Cumberbatch Jr said, frowing.

"There's not? Fuck. I gotta stop putting Raoul's Grey Goose in the tea…" Shaking her head, she pulled Benedict Cumberbatch Jr up and took him into his bedroom. Tucking him into bed, she read him his favourite bedtime story: Babbity Rabbity and her Cackling Stump. He was very sleepy by the story's end, and Lysandre kissed his forehead, put out the lights, and returned to the living room with every intent on crying about how much her life sucked.

Then, she saw a shadow move across the wall. Lysandre started. Whirling around, she felt her jaw drop in terror.

"Holy fuck!" She exclaimed. "It's the Ghost of Fucking Christmas Past!"


	3. Chapter 3

Of course, it wasn't actually the Ghost of Fucking Christmas Past.

Lo and behold, there stood the Phantom of the Opera (but for now we'll just call him Mr Y), just as masked and awkward-looking as he had been ten years ago, when he pulled several creepy-stalker-stunts in a desperate attempt to get Lysandre to marry him. (Ask her how that all worked out, I dare you. Or better yet, read the first story in this little duo-story thingie. What, Molière can self-promo and I can't?)

Lysandre, naturally, was not too happy about this. In fact, she was really pissed. She had hoped that the whole "Hey guys I'm a lesbian and I'm with Meg Giry" thing would work out to her advantage, but something told her it really hadn't. Namely the fact that Mr Y was standing right in front of her.

"Your hair was black the last time I saw you." God, clearly the man still wasn't good at making decent conversation.

Lysandre shrugged. "I decided ginger was more fun," she said, twirling a lock of red hair around her finger. "Don't ask me how I did it, either. Frankly, it was a real bitch to figure out. But what _I'd_ like to know is what the _hell_ do you think you're doing here?!"

"What am _I_ doing here? My dear Lysandre, I _own_ every inch of Coney Island!" He opened his arms in demonstration, looking immensely proud of himself. Lysandre stared at him for a full five seconds before completely cracking up.

"Okay, hold the phone," she laughed, "are you telling me that after everything that happened back in Paris, your next big idea was to open a theme park in _America?_ And here I thought you were some sort of genius!" Wiping her eyes, she collapsed over a chair, chest heaving with mirth.

Mr Y pouted at her. "I don't care what you think. I'm worth millions, now, and the Americans think I'm great."

Lysandre rolled her eyes. "They think _everything_ is great. Don't you hear them out there, going on and on about Heaven By The Sea or some shit? You could toss them a plastic spoon and they'd all laugh hysterically, turn into potatoes, and roll away into the sunset."

Blinking at her, Mr Y nodded a bit before sitting across from her. "But the reason I've come..." He trailed off, staring at his folded hands. "Oh Lysandre, my Lysandre, in that time when the world thought me dead... My Lysandre, on that night just before you wed, ah Lysandre, you came and found where I hid, don't you deny that you did, that long ago night..."

He ended on a rather high note, and Lysandre sat there watching him, a complete WTF expression on her face. "...What are you talking about?" She asked.

"Don't deny it, Lysandre!" He reached for her, causing Lysandre to cringe, before elaborating. "That night, Beneath A Moonless Sky, too dark to see a thing... too dark to even try..."

"No seriously bro I don't know what you're talking about - "

"And I touched you!"

"Whoa now - "

"And I held you!"

"Erik - "

"- Singing in your veins! -"

"You're confused - "

"And I took you!"

"_Gross!"_

"...What?"

Lysandre sat up, brow furrowed and her head tilted to the side. "Are you talking horizontal salsa dance?" She didn't wait for him to respond. "Do you mean _sex_? Dude, believe me when I say that when it comes to you and me, it ain't happenin'."

Mr Y looked even more confused than Lysandre felt. "How is it not happening? It _did_ happen. Ten years ago. You looked into my heart and saw me pure and whole."

Another bark of laughter from Lysandre. "Fat chance of that, yo. Look bruhbruh, I don't know _who_ you got busy with that night, but it sure wasn't me. I had a thing."

"It _had_ to be you!" Mr Y protested. "Who else would it have been? I heard your voice, I - I _know_ it was you!"

"Mm, yeah, nope." Lysandre tossed her hair. "Sorry, but like I said, I had a thing. Next time you get it on like Marvin Gaye, make sure there's a little light on in the room so you can see who you're with." She was about to make a sassy as hell exit, when Benedict Cumberbatch Jr came running into the room and into his mother's arms.

"Mother, please, I'm scared!" He exclaimed, burrowing his face into her skirts. Lysandre crouched down to his level, taking him into her arms.

"My darling little Benny, you needn't be scared! There aren't any Death Eaters under your bed; I've already checked!"

"Aren't you going to introduce us, Lysandre?" Mr Y asked succintly. Lysandre gave him a death glare before lifting her son into her arms.

"This is my son, Benedict Cumberbatch Jr. Benedict Cumberbatch Jr, this is Mr Y, who used to call himself Erik (which was a much cooler name). He stalked and kidnapped Mummy ten years ago, d'you remember me telling you about that?" She asked, tickling Benedict Cumberbatch Jr under the chin.

Benedict Cumberbatch Jr looked at Mr Y. "You're a prick," he said matter-of-factly, illiciting a fond chuckle from his mother and a frown from Mr Y.

"I'm sure your mother embellished an awful lot," Mr Y argued. "Anyway, how are you enjoying Coney, little vicomte?"

Benedict Cumberbatch Jr shrugged. "S'aiight."

Lysandre set him down and nudged him back towards his room. "Why don't you go back to bed, darling? I'll be in in a little while to read you a story." Benedict Cumberbatch Jr toddled off towards his room, and neither he nor Lysandre knew that Mr Y's number one train of thought was, _I think that's my son._

Which could only mean that more shit was, in fact, about to go down.


End file.
